


The One Where Sherlock Doesn’t Ruin John’s Holiday

by nutmeag83



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cooking, Cruise Ships, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing, Drunken Shenanigans, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, John wears a suit and a tux, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining John Watson, Pre-Reichenbach, Season/Series 02, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock wears jeans, Vacation, for science john!, going on holiday, minor case, probably pining Sherlock but we don’t get his POV, terrible rom coms were definitely harmed in the writing of this fic, the couple that rock climbs together stays together, the good ones were spared, they both look fabulous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 13:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16429955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83
Summary: John wins a cruise vacation for two and brings Sherlock along. But when it turns out to be a couples cruise, they have to pretend to be a couple themselves (for science). How many pretend kisses will it take before they can’t deny their feelings any longer?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set pre-Reichenbach. I’m just going to pretend the Fall doesn’t ever happen at all. No making my boys hurt just after they’ve gotten together! 
> 
> I have been on a cruise before (Alaskan, it was gorgeous!), so I think I know what I’m talking about for the most part. I did take some liberties on the whole couples aspect, since I haven’t been on one of those. Holler at me if I get anything crazy wrong. 
> 
> I actually wrote a huge chunk of this years ago, then it languished until I won [Lore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lets_call_me_lily), an amazing beta, in this year’s Fandom Trumps Hate auction. I was trying to come up with something for her to edit, and figured I’d give this one to her, since my writing was worse when I wrote it than it is now (at least I’d like to think I’ve improved over the years). And thank goodness for her! She played hardball with my overuse of Sherlocks and Johns, and forced me to use my pronouns (but not overuse them). My writing would not be nearly so polished without her guiding hand. Thank you, ma’am! <3
> 
> Though beta’d, this story still had two non-Brits working on it, so Brit-picking was just by our own sometimes clueless guesses. I hope you don’t mind too much
> 
> Read on and enjoy (hopefully).

The tickets came in an innocuous envelope. John would realize much later that alone should have been suspicious, but he vaguely remembered signing up for something when doing the shopping a few weeks before, so he shrugged off the impression that he’d signed up for a year of free something or another, not two tickets for a Mediterranean cruise. Perhaps he’d missed that part. He’d been in a hurry and had only signed up to stop the much too perky woman at the table from following him down the aisle as he searched for the solitary jam flavor Sherlock would eat (blueberry, disgustingly enough).

So when he read the letter detailing his winnings, John just accepted it, then mentally went through his list of friends and recent dates to see who might be suitable for a week-long, all-expenses-paid Mediterranean cruise. Not even cropping up in the top twenty was his flatmate of a year and a half. Sherlock was many things—brilliant, sharp, acerbic, fucking hilarious at times—but he was _not_ the holiday sort. Or the tourist sort. Or the laze-in-the-sun-for-seven-minutes-let-alone-seven- _days_ sort.

Sherlock may have been the first person to appear in John’s fantasies for who he _wanted_ with him on the trip—he had come to terms with his ridiculous and most definitely unrequited feelings for his friend long ago—but Sherlock’s reasons for not feeling the same way were likely many and varied. So John began asking around. Surely it wouldn’t be difficult to find someone who wanted a free holiday?

Two days later, he began to realize he’d not thought the situation through quite enough. Many of his friends were married with children, which immediately took them out of the running. Another got violently seasick when even looking at boats. Two more had obligations the same week as the trip. Mrs. Hudson had had a horrible experience on a Mediterranean cruise years before and refused to try a second time around. John even asked Greg and Molly, having run out of his old mates and moved onto work friends, but both were bogged down with work.

“You asked Molly and Lestrade before you asked me?” were the first words John heard from Sherlock as he came home from work a few days later. If John didn’t know any better, he’d say that hurt and bitterness tinged his friend’s tone, but that didn’t make any sense. While he knew that, as Sherlock’s friend and flatmate, he did hold a certain power to hurt him, the tone didn’t make sense given the context of the statement. It was just a silly holiday, no grisly corpses or locked room mysteries in sight (well, hopefully not; he really did want a proper holiday for once).

“And why did I have to learn about the cruise from Molly to begin with?”

Sherlock stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room, goggles perched on his nose and hands covered in the extra-impervious lab gloves John had given him on his birthday after a chemical spill had almost cost him a finger. He held beakers in both hands, but they looked to be forgotten as he set upon John with a miffed expression.

John couldn’t remember the last time Sherlock had voluntarily stopped an experiment to say anything to him, not even “oh God, oh God, the table is on fire,” (which he had quite calmly delivered seven months before, though without the “oh God” part, whilst continuing the experiment). Sherlock halting his activities just to pout about a cruise he probably had no interest in made John raise his eyebrows and attempt to think of any reason he might have for being upset. Missing out on a holiday was definitely out, as was a case (John might have possibly checked if anything weird had happened on cruises recently to use as a persuasion tactic, but to no avail; they’d all been remarkably dull). There could possibly be a person of interest also sailing aboard the ship, but no one he’d heard about. Instead of trying to wrack his brains for stupid reasons, he did the easy thing and just asked.

“I can’t get you to stay in the flat for seven _hours_ without work to distract you, why would you have any interest in being stuck on a criminal-free ship for seven _days_?”

“John.” Sherlock looked affronted. “The possibilities for the data I could gather by studying the ins and outs of cruise management are limitless. Not to mention the experiments I could conduct specific to Mediterranean climate and sea air. Why _wouldn’t_ I want to go?”

“Uhhh, yet another reason not to ask you. I’m not bunking with some weird Mediterranean mold or following you ‘round the bowels of a cruise ship for a week. I want a proper holiday.”

Sherlock gave John a withering look that John had long ago learned to ignore. “I’m certain I could find somewhere outside the cabin to place any experiments you deem noxious or ‘too slimy,’ and you would be free to spend the week however you like. I would do perfectly well on my own.”

John glared at Sherlock in return, though he was certain Sherlock had similarly learned to ignore it, then started listing. “The Ignoble Baron, the Flightless Bird, the Aluminium Crutch, and the One We Do Not Speak Of.”

Sherlock blinked like a lost owl through his goggles. “What?”

John hung his coat on the hook before coming back into the room and answering. “All cases where I was meant to be on holiday or otherwise occupied. I wasn’t even in the _country_ for the Flightless Bird, and yet my trip was still ruined by it.”

“You weren’t here for the Flightless Bird?”

John collapsed on the sofa, hands covering his face. “See? That just proves my point—you don’t even realize when I’m not around. My life ends up revolving around yours whether I want it to or not.” Generally, he was patient with Sherlock’s eccentricities. The man was brilliant partly _because_ of his ability to focus so singularly on the job at hand, but occasionally, he went just a little too far, and John had been bottling things up for a while now.

He lowered his hands from his face, just in time to see Sherlock’s go stark white and his arms drop, putting one of the beakers he still held in the precarious position of spilling its slightly smoking contents. John ignored the beaker, though, and stared at Sherlock’s face. He had never seen a look of such shock on his friend before. He didn’t think it possible to shock Sherlock with anything except stupidity, but apparently he’d been wrong.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s face hardened. “I’m not forcing you to be here.”

“No, Sherlock. You’re my friend. I _want_ to be here. But sometimes I feel like you’d be just as happy hauling the skull around as you would me.”

The stricken look was back on his face. “But you’re my blogger.”

“My life isn’t meant to revolve around yours.”

“I don’t mean– That’s not what–” Sherlock walked over to the sofa and collapsed next him. John eyed the beakers that were placed carelessly on the coffee table. “Oh, relax John. They’re perfectly safe,” Sherlock said with a huff.

“Then why are you actually wearing PPE? You only wear it when I harp on you about missing limbs.”

“What? Oh. That was for earlier.” Sherlock waved off John’s concern and removed the gloves and goggles. “The chemicals were volatile by themselves, but once combined, they’re as safe as washing up liquid.”

“Washing up liquid doesn’t smoke.” And yet Sherlock still wondered why John had misgivings about bringing him on a ship for a week.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Beside the point.” His face went more serious than it had been in quite some time, and his eyes bored into John’s. It was a bit distracting, having those pale eyes so focused on him. He pushed the giddiness down.

“John, you protect me, watch over me, keep me sane. I’d be _dead_ if it weren’t for you. If I accidentally ruin your holidays, it’s not because I have no regard for you.”

The earnestness on Sherlock’s face was a bit disconcerting, and for a moment, John wondered if Sherlock was playing one of his roles, as he sometimes did to get information out of a person he was questioning for a case. But something in the set of Sherlock’s jaw and the hand that gripped John’s knee, seemingly unconsciously, persuaded John to believe his friend’s words.

“Oh.” And even though he knew he was probably playing into Sherlock’s hands—just because the man was earnest didn’t mean there _wasn’t_ an ulterior motive—he found himself relenting. “You really want to come on the cruise with me?”

Sherlock beamed. Many would mistake it for the serial-killer-case-solving smile, but John recognized the differences that made it the John-just-did-something-good smile. It made his stomach flip just a bit, but he ignored the feeling.

“This will be brilliant, John.”

And John almost believed him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds out this isn't just your average family cruise. Sherlock has a plan.

A month later found the men unloading their suitcases from a taxi at the embarkation point in Barcelona. John wondered how much lab equipment Sherlock had managed to cram into his cases, but he didn’t ask. He’d been tempted to watch him pack to make sure nothing too strange got slipped in, but worried that his presence in Sherlock’s room would be taken as a sign that he’d do Sherlock’s packing for him, so John had hidden in his own room until he was sure his friend was done.

John chose to instead concentrate on finally getting a holiday. It was pure fantasy—he couldn’t go anywhere with Sherlock without being embroiled in some mystery or experiment—but he was going to hold onto that fantasy for as long as he was able. That fantasy was the only holiday he was likely to actually get.

It ended even sooner than he had expected, though, as Sherlock began rolling his case to the check-in point and asked, “How do you want to play this? Honeymooners? Old married couple? Early relationship?”

John squinted at his back, then hurried to catch up. Did he miss details for a case? “What on Earth are you nattering on about?”

Sherlock gave the long-suffering sigh usually reserved for the Scotland Yard crowd. “What sort of couple are we pretending to be?”

“Couple? I have no clue what you mean.”

“It’s a couples’ cruise, John,” Sherlock said slowly, as if talking to a two-year old. “We will have to act as if we are one. I doubt we’ll be kicked off for not being an actual couple, but I’d rather not call extra attention to myself.”

John wasn’t sure what to focus on, the fact that he’d somehow missed that the cruise had a couples theme, or that Sherlock cared about calling attention to himself. Deciding he didn’t feel like bickering over his lack of observation skills, he went with the latter.

“Since when do you care about calling attention to yourself? You _thrive_ on being different.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s easier to observe people in their natural habitat when they’re not suspicious of me.”

“Are we on a cruise or a zoological trip to the Amazon?”

“Is there much of a difference?”

“I suppose not to you,” John muttered. “But I still don’t understand why we have to pretend to be a couple. We could just say that I won the trip and didn’t have a girlfriend to bring with me and so you stepped in. It’s true enough.”

It was definitely a bad idea to act like a couple. It would be too easy to slip into that fairy tale. Then where would he be when the trip ended? A closeted, bisexual, ex-army doctor blogger with a broken heart living with the object of his one-sided affections, that’s where. Okay, that’s what he already was, but no need to exacerbate the problem by adding in a pretend relationship. Not smart.

“One of my experiments involves large groups of couples interacting. If we’re not a couple, people will act differently. I need them to be completely at ease with me.”

“Sherlock, what happened to your promise that I could have a proper holiday?”

“A few minor lies about our relationship will not stop you from enjoying shuffleboard or getting outrageously pissed and sunburned at the pool.”

“And what happens when people wonder why we’re basically taking separate vacations? We’ll need to be seen together if you really want people to be comfortable with you. They’ll want to see a couple, not a lone man asking odd questions.”

Sherlock stopped walking, head tilted in thought. “You raise a good point. Yes, we will need to spend at least a few hours together each day. That shouldn’t be difficult, given that the ship insists on serving three meals a day and offering mixers each evening. Those will be sufficient, don’t you think?” He frowned, as if working out difficult equations in his head.

“Sherlock, do you realize what sort of activities take place on a couples’ cruise?”

“I did memorize the schedule, yes. We will be stopping at two ports over the course of the trip, the rest of the time will be spent at sea, likely to create an atmosphere of bonding with the couples. The ship has numerous activities available at any given time, including the pool, the gym, the aforementioned shuffleboard, varying classes on inane craft-type activities–”

“That one right there,” John interrupted. “Any activities will probably require both members of the couple to attend. If you’re serious about seeing couples interacting, you’ll want to go to those classes. You won’t be able to do that alone.”

“Oh.” Sherlock paused, then continued walking. “Then I suppose you–” he cut himself off, sparing a quick glance for John. “I will just have to pare that experiment down. I’m sure I can manage well enough during dining hours and evening social events.”

John was impressed that Sherlock seemed to be taking his rant from a few weeks earlier seriously. He had cut back dramatically on the number of times he called John away from work to ask for unnecessary aid, and now he seemed determined to let John have something of an actual holiday.

Which, of course, weakened his resolve. Sherlock trying anything for his sake, when he never did that for anyone else, turned John into a puddle of emotion and weakness. He sighed. He was going to regret this when the week ended, but part of him wanted to see what Sherlock was like as half of a couple. Well, not just any couple. A couple that included John in the other half. A few days of relationship bliss was worth the heartache, wasn’t it?

“I’ll give you breakfast, dinner, one hour in the morning, and two hours in the afternoon. Evening events will depend on the event and how I’m feeling.”

“At least three of the evening events or add an hour to the morning if you can’t find any you like,” Sherlock replied instantly.

“Fine.”

Sherlock beamed.

Their arrival at the check-in building prevented further discussion, but they continued as soon as they had checked in and were out of earshot again. They had two hours to sort out the details before boarding.

“Back to my original question. What sort of couple are we?” asked Sherlock, rounding on John.

John was already regretting his decision to go along with this. Sherlock’s smile was just a little too Cheshire for his comfort. But he knew there was no backing out now.

“Well, I’m a horrible actor, so I reckon we should keep as close to the truth as possible.” He thought a moment, working out the best way to play this charade. “Sooo, I suppose we can keep our initial introduction. It works as a great meet-cute anyway.”

“A what-what?” Sherlock’s face was full of horrified disgust.

John laughed. “In rom-coms, the couple always has a terribly cutesy way that they met. Our actual story fits the bill. I tell my sad-sack invalid story to a friend, he introduces me to the quirky guy he knows who’s also in need of a flatmate, you invite me to a crime scene, I chase you chasing a criminal around London, then we decide to move in together.” Okay, maybe his perception was off after living with Sherlock for a year and a half. Some people might find the whole thing weird or morbid. But if they were morbid together, that was still cute, right?

Sherlock looked skeptical but left it at a muttered “sentiment” and an eye roll. “Fine, no need to change our origins. I suppose we should keep our timeline the same, on the chance anyone recognizes me. There’s likely to be other Londoners on the ship. Have we been a couple the entire time we’ve lived together?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does, John. We need to be able to cite our entire timeline. Couples tend to be exceptionally sentimental around other couples, do they not?”

“I suppose that’s what we’re ultimately trying to find out, but yeah, I see your point. With couples being the theme here– Oh God.” John interrupted himself with a terrible thought. “This is a _romantic_ getaway cruise, right? Not some sort of adult-only, nudie beach thing, right?”

“Well of course it’s adult only, John. This is a cruise for couples, not families.”

“No, I mean adult-only in the porno sense.”

Sherlock looked nonplussed. “Romantic. I think.” he finally replied.

“Christ, let’s hope so.” John was certain he’d have a short-circuited brain for the entire trip if it turned out to be the other sort. In fact, he was canceling if it was “adult only.” Way too awkward.

Sherlock recovered first. “You were saying?” he prompted.

“Uhhh,” John had completely lost his train of thought while fighting the urge to think of Sherlock in a more intimate setting than the slightly less distracting romantic one he’d already been considering.

“Timeline. You said ‘with couples being the theme here…’”

“Right!” John’s brain rebooted. “I was just going to say that you made a good point. Given the nature of the cruise, we will likely be asked about our full history by at least one person. So...” John wasn’t quite sure how to do this. Should they keep it close to the truth—for him at least—or shy as far away as possible? One would be easier to remember, the other might make it a bit easier to go back to their normal routine at the end of the trip.

“We met as stated,” Sherlock began when nothing was forthcoming from John. “I told you I was married to my work, but after a few months, you pushed past my defenses. It came to a head during the jewelry heist case–”

“Fire on the Mountain,” John interrupted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but nodded. “Yes, that one. As we were sat in the dark, waiting for the burglars, I realized my feelings for you, blurted them out, you said you felt the same, we apprehended the burglars, then went home for a shag. We’ve been together ever since.”

Of course Sherlock’s overly organized brain could come up with a detailed story on the spot. It worked with John’s actual timeline, having only realized his feelings for his flatmate a few weeks before that case. He swallowed and reminded himself that this was all fake, that Sherlock hadn’t actually declared his love for John whilst sitting in the dark waiting for jewelry thieves to break into a museum. He could do this.

“Right. Yes. That’s fine,” he finally managed. “If we’ve been together for over a year, we don’t need to be all over each other.” Thank God.

“All over…? Oh, you mean physically close? Kissing and such.”

“Yeah,” he agreed weakly, trying to wipe the mental image of snogging Sherlock senseless on a deck chair from his brain. He wasn’t succeeding.

“Fine. But our touches should be familiar: a hand on a back when standing close together, a kiss when parting …”

Sherlock continued talking, but the words stopped making sense. John was going to be allowed to kiss Sherlock? Maybe not snog, of course, but still, the casual kiss goodbye was almost more enticing. It suggested a level of intimacy that groping lacked. It said, _Yes, this is the person I love. I’m going to go do my own thing now, but I’ll be back, and this person will still be here and happy to see me_.

“John!” There was a hand on his shoulder. He shook himself free of his thoughts.

“Sorry?”

Sherlock looked odd. Almost … uncertain. “I said, we should practice. We’ve lived together long enough for some of the familiarity to be natural, but we don’t …”

“Touch, yeah,” John finished for him. Casual touches. He could do this. “You’re right. Well, I’m in need of food before we board the ship. What’re the chances we can find a place that serves a decent full English here in Spain?”

Sherlock looked confused at the course change, but followed John as he began walking down the street. “I don’t know …”

John slipped his hand into Sherlock’s as casually as he could, but he was afraid it still trembled just a touch. He wondered if Sherlock noticed. If he did, he didn’t point it out.

“I.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Give me a few minutes to observe. I’m sure I can find you something.”

John wondered if it was just his imagination when he felt the slight pressure of a hand squeeze before Sherlock pulled him along.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys practice being a couple, John contemplates sharing a bed, and Sherlock gets a little Queer Eye help from John.

Sherlock seemed to take the idea of practicing gestures to heart, because over the course of the next two hours, he dizzied John by casually stroking his hand on the table as they ate breakfast, using his own serviette to wipe away some stray food at the corner of John’s mouth, and putting his hand at John’s lower back to guide him down a crowded street.

John reciprocated by pushing back Sherlock’s overlong curls when the wind swept them across his forehead and slinging his arm on the park bench backrest behind Sherlock whilst they sat for a few minutes people watching. He felt clumsy and as if every move broadcast his true feelings to Sherlock, but he knew he was being silly. Well, his motions might be clumsy, but Sherlock couldn’t deduce his feelings from casual gestures that they’d talked about needing to practice just a short time before. And if his true feelings showed on his face from time to time, well, maybe he could convince Sherlock that he was a better actor than expected. Sherlock would be busy concentrating on other couples once they got on the ship anyway. He needn’t be concerned.

He kept waiting for the kiss, but it had yet to appear. He didn’t think he could initiate it, despite knowing their need to practice. Hand holding and hair combing were walks in the park compared to kissing. There was no way he’d look smooth kissing Sherlock for the first time. His brain was sure to short circuit again. He just couldn’t make himself do it.

He thought Sherlock would have made a move by now, but he too was holding off for whatever reason. He probably thought it would be just as easy as their other gestures, and if they could do those, they could kiss. And since no organic reason for kissing had occurred, he hadn’t bothered yet.

When John decided to leave Sherlock reading some metal plaque in a park near the harbor to duck into a bodega for the sun cream he’d forgotten to pack, Sherlock tugged at their linked hands, put his free hand in John’s open one, and pulled him closer before giving him a peck on the lips.

It was nothing special. Closed-mouthed and dry, it lasted less than two seconds before Sherlock stepped back and dropped their hands. John heard him say something before turning back to the plaque. But it was the most amazing “nothing special” kiss he’d ever experienced. He heard his heart beating in his ears, yet he somehow had the presence of mind to begin his trek to the shop before Sherlock grew suspicious of his stillness.

He was still thinking about the kiss as he joined Sherlock at the edge of the park a few minutes later, and it stayed on his mind as they boarded the ship, Sherlock’s hand guiding him again.

He half paid attention as Sherlock pulled out a map and began explaining the location of their suite (a very impressive prize indeed; what _had_ he signed up for all those weeks ago?), not coming fully to the present until they gathered on the deck for a quick drill/orientation on boat and water safety. By the time they reached their cabin after the drill, John felt mostly like himself again. Was this going to happen every time Sherlock’s lips brushed his? He would definitely deduce John’s feelings if it did. What had he got himself into?

***

The bed didn’t bother John. Or, at least, he wasn’t going to let it bother him. Sherlock rarely slept normal hours when his brain was busy anyway and could often be found kipping on the sofa instead of his bed, so the likelihood of them needing to share was slim. And even if they did, it was a rather large bed, so there was plenty of room to leave space between them. Nope, the bed didn’t bother him at all. It was fine.

Now if only he could get his brain to stop bombarding him with images of what he’d really like to _do_ with Sherlock in said bed if their relationship was real.

The bed didn’t seem to be giving Sherlock any troubles. He hadn’t made a sound when he’d entered the room, sparing a few moments to observe whatever it was he needed to before opening his cases on the nearest piece of floor—right in front of the door, of course—and pawing through them looking for whatever important piece of equipment he needed right at that moment. John decided to satisfy his curiosity and sat on the bed to watch Sherlock unpack. He was surprised to find it was mostly clothes, the contents rounded out by sample-gathering materials, notebooks, and his netbook.

Sherlock looked up when John hummed in surprise.

“What?” he asked suspiciously.

“No microscope?”

“Of course not, John. This is a fact-gathering mission. I’ll do most my experiments when we return home.”

“Will you be able to get mold through customs?”

“I nicked some customs forms from Bart’s last week,” Sherlock replied, stuffing some baggies and small phials in his coat pockets.

“Of course you did.” Sherlock could be impressively organized when he wanted to be. There was one thing, though … “Ummm, you do realize we’re on the Mediterranean, right? And it’s not winter.”

Sherlock stared at John as if he’d asked him if he knew that the sky was blue. “I’m the one who read the cruise agenda, aren’t I?”

“Then why are you wearing your coat? It’s got to be at least thirty degrees out. Even once we get out on the water, you’re going to roast. Did you bring any acceptable clothing at all?” John started going through the case until Sherlock slammed it closed.

He glowered. “My clothing is always acceptable, John. And I need the extra pockets my coat provides.”

John sighed before spying the messenger bag Sherlock used for his netbook. He fetched it, dumped out its contents, and proffered it with a flourish. “Here. Pockets.” He held up a hand to stave off another withering glare. “Don’t tell me it ruins the line of your …” he waved his hand to encompass all of Sherlock. “Whatever. Just use it, okay? Holidays are meant for bad fashion statements. It’s part of the experience.”

Sherlock looked as if John had suggested they dump a basket of puppies over the side of the ship, then took the bag and held it out with one hand like it might bite.

“For Christ’s–” John walked right up to Sherlock, dug around in his coat pockets—not at all strange, given that he’d been made to dig through them on more than one occasion—and transferred the contents to the messenger bag. Sherlock stared blankly down at him. Once John was satisfied that everything had been extricated, he removed the ridiculous coat and jacket and looped the bag’s strap over Sherlock’s head and onto his shoulder. He studied his friend for a second before unbuttoning the cuffs and rolling up the sleeves of his poncy button-down shirt. He stood back for a final look before nodding his head and grinning.

“There. Now you’re on holiday.”

Sherlock looked down at himself, then back up at John, then back down again. John almost expected to see the man’s lips tremble with the beginnings of tantrum, but was surprised when he gave him a tentative smile instead.

“Thank you, John.”

For some reason, that smile warmed John almost as much as the kiss had earlier. His return smile came easily to his lips. “It’s what boyfriends are for, yeah?” His good mood evaporated a bit when Sherlock made a face John couldn’t sort out. He attempted an explanation. “Look. I know you’re probably not into labels, but ‘partner’ sounds too utilitarian, and I’ve got to call you something, haven’t I?”

“Of course.” Sherlock’s face smoothed out. “Yes, you’re right. Boyfriend is … is fine.”

Did Sherlock Holmes just stutter? If anyone was going to be weirded out by their playacting, shouldn’t it be John, the supposedly straight one? But no; John was reveling in the idea of calling Sherlock his boyfriend, while Sherlock was the one shying away from it. Too much sentiment, he supposed. Well, Sherlock was the one who wanted to play house. He was just going along with his mad flatmate, as always. Sherlock would just have to cope.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Well, I should be off. Things to see and …” he trailed off, his expression going vague and distant. Probably already calculating the rate of body decay at sea or something.

John smiled fondly. This was the Sherlock he knew and loved. “Right. I’m going to go explore a bit myself. I’ll meet you on the lido deck for dinner, then?” He picked up the information card from the desk. “Looks like the buffet hours are pretty flexible. I’m thinking seven? See you then?”

Sherlock’s eyes cleared. “Yes. Seven. Fine.” He took the room key John held out, then followed him out of the room.

They almost collided when John stopped as soon as he reached the corridor. Before he could talk himself out of it, he turned around, rested his hands Sherlock’s upper arms, and stood up on tiptoe to press a chaste kiss to his friend’s lips. Just as unassuming as before, it still threatened to short circuit his brain. He quickly turned away, avoiding questioning eyes, lest he give himself away.

He cleared his throat. “Right. See you in a few hours.” He waved over his shoulder and sped down the passageway. It was going to be a long week.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock turns into a pod person, the boys learn to cuddle in public, and then they watch a crappy movie.

John scanned the crowd, looking for the mop of curly hair that would be peaking over the others. He’d managed to give himself a pretty good tour of the ship and looked into the activities offered, working up quite the appetite. His hasty snack of peanuts left over from the flight had been hours ago.

To his left, he heard a “There he is!” in his flatmate’s deep timber, though not in its usual acerbic tone. If John didn’t know better, he’d think Sherlock sounded … jovial (not to be confused with his gleeful “John, John, Lestrade found me a _serial murderer_ ” voice). He turned his head and saw him sat with another couple at a table for six, the other three spots still empty.

Was he...? Yes, Sherlock Homes was _smiling_. Around other people. Who were all alive. He was really taking this playacting seriously. John dropped his usual defenses to let the smile he wanted to use anytime he was around Sherlock appear. Pretending about pretending. He could do this.

He walked over to the table, placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and leaned down for a kiss. John caught only the slightest of hesitations from his fake boyfriend before he, too, leaned into the kiss.

“Did you have a good afternoon, love?” John asked, settling to the chair next to Sherlock. Oops. He hadn’t meant to let that term of endearment slip out. They’d not talked about it, but he hoped it was okay.

Deep in acting mode, Sherlock crinkled his eyes endearingly as he settled an arm on the back of John’s chair. “Yes, a highly successful first afternoon.” He glanced at John fondly before turning back to the couple sitting next to him. “John’s a saint. I promised him a proper holiday, and yet here I am, taking scrapings and codifying mold spores.” He said this with a self-deprecating smile. It was creeping John out. He wasn’t sure he could handle a week of saccharine Sherlock.

He cleared his throat and tried his own hand at jovial. “This one isn’t happy unless he’s got something to keep his brain occupied. And I’m happy when he’s happy, so …” John shrugged, placing a hand on Sherlock’s knee and hoping it looked natural.

“Well it looks like you’ve struck a good balance. Communication is key, you know,” the woman said in a North American accent. “Plus, each person should have their own activities. I don’t care how in love you are, you still need a life outside of your significant other, isn’t that right, darling?”

The man smiled. “Indeed. I don’t know what I’d do without my writing group.”

“You’re a writer then?” John asked.

The man shrugged. “Wannabe, I suppose. I’m a detective in my day job. Alice is an ER surgeon.”

“What a coincidence,” Sherlock practically cooed. _Seriously_ creepy. But John had to stifle a laugh. He knew Sherlock must have had their careers pegged within twenty seconds of meeting them. “I’m a consulting detective, and John’s a doctor. Although he’s the writer, not me.” He tossed another fond look John’s way.

John shot him a quelling look and squeezed his knee a bit. He was going for an _Overdoing it a bit, don’t you think_? and hoped he got his point across. Sherlock gave a minute eyeroll but dropped his thousand-watt smile down a few notches.

“Oh my God. You’re that British detective guy, aren’t you?” exclaimed the man. “I knew your name sounded familiar. Which must make you his blogger,” he said, turning to John. “You’ve got a few fans at my station. I keep meaning to take a look at your blog but haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

John smiled at the man. “Sherlock isn’t the best with introductions. Yes, I’m John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes.” He shook hands with the man and woman.

“I’m Alice Little, and this is my husband, Clark Martin,” the woman replied.

“Minneapolis?” Sherlock asked.

“How did you …?” Alice asked in amazement and a little worry.

“It’s his thing, Al,” Clark said, nudging her arm with a grin. “He can figure out your whole life from just looking at and talking to you for a few minutes.”

“But I haven’t lived in Minneapolis in twenty years!”

“Spokane now, yes? That’s where Clark is from and where the two of you met?” The cheesy smile was gone, replaced with Sherlock’s usual know-it-all smirk.

John relaxed. Sherlock must have noticed, because he spared a glance for John, and his mouth softened a fraction. John smiled back. It really wasn’t that difficult for them to read each other and react fondly, John’s own unrequited feelings aside. They were best friends who had been living in each other’s pockets for over a year. John reminded himself that there was a discussion going on and turned back to Alice and Clark.

“Sherlock has a penchant for accents,” he explained to Alice.

Sherlock let out a huff. “It’s not a penchant, John. It’s an eidetic memory coupled with deduction.” He seemed to have dropped the saccharine act completely, thank the gods above.

“Yes, dear,” John shot back dryly.

Clark squinted at John and Sherlock. “I didn’t know you two were …”

“A couple?” John finished for him, thrilling a little as the words left his mouth. The man nodded. Knowing Sherlock would try to give their whole made-up history unprompted, John cut in before he could take a breath. “Yeah, it sort of just happened after a while. We keep it quiet. I mean, we don’t hide it, but I’ve not mentioned it on the blog. Just one more reason for some psycho to target us.”

“Understandable,” Clark said. “You’ve already dealt with some pretty, uh, interesting folks, from what I’ve heard from one of your fans at my station.” His eyes widened. “Oh, is that why that one guy strapped a bomb to you?” he asked John incredulously.

“Yes,” came Sherlock’s clipped reply, surprising John both by answering at all and in the tone of his voice. They hadn’t talked about the incident in the year since it had happened. His voice was tight and strained.

John looked over to see Sherlock’s mouth forming a thin line, bracketed by pain lines. He would give anything to remove that haunted look.

“Hey,” he said quietly, squeezing Sherlock’s knee. “I’m fine, remember? We’re both fine.”

“But I–”

“Didn’t cause it, okay? Moriarty is a psychopath. If I hadn’t been in your life, he’d have threatened Mrs. Hudson or Greg or someone else. The Pool was all him, understand?” John squeezed his knee harder until he looked up at him. He finally nodded, but the haunted look didn’t quite dissipate. John cupped the side of Sherlock’s head with his free hand, stroking his cheek like he’d wanted to for so long. His friend’s face relaxed a little, and he finally smiled. John breathed in relief. It would not do for one of them to have a panic attack their first day. He smiled back and forced himself to drop his hand.

John looked up to see the other couple staring at them a tad worriedly. He attempted a smile. “It’s an interesting life. So,” he added, turning to Alice and changing the subject. “Tell me about life in the ER. I spent some of my school years in A&E. It was rather exciting.”

The four talked about their common interests for a few more minutes before a third couple joined them just as they decided to do a buffet run. After everyone settled back down with their food, they did a round of introductions. The latecomers were a young couple from Norway on their honeymoon that Alice had met earlier in the afternoon. Isla was a marine biologist, and Alf taught primary school. They seemed sweet, but quiet, leaving most of the talking to Sherlock, Clark, and Alice.

Though mostly back to his acerbic self, Sherlock was still much more open and friendly than John had seen him behave outside of Baker Street. It was odd to watch. With eating taking the focus, they didn’t share as many touches as they had earlier, but Sherlock still managed to act like a loving boyfriend, offering a taste of his beef, then later nicking a bit of the spinach thing John said he really liked. He smiled sweetly and encouraged John to tell stories or boasted of his criminal-chasing prowess. John was practically floating by the time dinner ended and they headed out the door.

Isla and Alf made their goodbyes, intent on getting a little alone time in their cabin, whilst the other two couples talked over their options. There were no mixers scheduled for their first evening on ship, just a laid-back cinema night. John was ready to leave Sherlock to himself for the evening, seeing as couple interaction would be at a minimum, but Sherlock surprised him yet again by stating they would be attending.

They parted ways with Alice and Clark to go back to their cabin, having agreed to meet up in time for the film. John waited until they were out of earshot to ask in a low voice, “Are you sure you want to use one of the three evenings on this? A bit wasted, isn’t it? We won’t be able to talk to anyone else, and given the theme of the cruise, it’s likely to be some overly romantic tripe even I won’t like.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I need another day before I can be begin collecting samples, and I’ve not yet memorized shift schedules, so following workers is out. We could go back to the suite, but I thought you might enjoy not being cooped up. We can always leave if it’s ridiculous.”

It was ridiculous. “ _The Lake House_?” Sherlock questioned, reading the movie poster as they walked into the room an hour later. “That’s a wretched name for a movie. And the poster has nothing to do with a lake house. What is it about?”

“Time travel?” John offered. He had vague memories of seeing trailers for it years ago. Or perhaps he’d even seen the film itself. Sherlock looked at him skeptically, and John shrugged. “Search me. Want to skive off?”

Sherlock looked torn but shook his head. “I’m too intrigued now.”

“Fine, but don’t blame me when you hate it.”

“My hating any film is a given.”

John snorted in agreement as they walked over to where Clark was standing up and waving at them. “I managed to snag the comfy chairs before they ran out,” he said, settling in next to Alice.

John thought the word “comfy” held different meanings for Clark and himself. The chairs were slightly larger than usual and did indeed look cushiony, but also as though each chair was meant to be shared by a couple, which took comfy straight out of the equation when your companion was over six feet of sharp joints and cheekbones. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, expecting him to be of a similar mind, but though Sherlock was frowning, it was more a frown of concentration than pique.

After a few moments of thinking, Sherlock stepped up onto the ottoman at the foot of the chair, then basically fell backwards onto the chair itself. He wiggled for a bit, then opened his arms in obvious invitation. John stared for a few moments until Sherlock prompted, “Well?” and wiggled his fingers.

“Are you sure about this? Your arm will be asleep in ten minutes if I lie on you like that.” John looked over at Alice and Clark for support, only to find them happily cuddled together. How did they do that? He’d been on loads of dates, and sitting in those cutesy-coupley ways never worked. Necks got stiff, limbs fell asleep, arms got tired of holding on.

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. “I know what I’m doing, John. Come here.”

John sighed, but did as he was told, gingerly settling as far into the other corner of the chair as possible. Sherlock gave an annoyed huff, put his arm around John’s shoulders, and hauled him closer. John let out a squawk of alarm but went willingly enough. In moments, he was surrounded by the scents of consulting detective—aftershave, deodorant, and just a hint of something salty and metallic—and it was as intoxicating as when Sherlock opened the bathroom door after a shower. God. John didn’t care if all of his limbs fell asleep, he’d gladly stay right here, with Sherlock’s warm breath puffing against the side of his face, wrapped up in surprisingly comfortable octopus limbs. Even the bony knee against John’s calf wasn’t a deterrent. Okay, maybe he could understand why couples did this. His sigh this time was one of contentment.

“See?” Sherlock’s voice rumbled in his ear. “I know what I’m doing.”

Oh, Christ. No, he really didn’t. That voice. Sherlock was incapable of sitting through a film silently, which meant John would be hearing that devastating voice directly in his ear for two hours. If he made it out of the film without popping a boner, he’d count himself extremely lucky.

Fortunately, he had failed to take into account that Sherlock would be using said devastating voice to whisper ridiculous theories about the characters and plot details until John was shaking with laughter, stomach aching from keeping quiet. He didn’t realize until “intermission” that they’d kept their surrounding neighbors highly entertained throughout the first half of the film.

He was warm and happy and would have been content to stay for the rest of the night, but someone decided that, entertaining though the two men were, they’d rather have their own cinema night with better fare than the cruise could provide. John couldn’t remember which of them acquiesced, but he soon found himself piled around a coffee table with two other couples watching _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ , which he enjoyed, but knew that Sherlock only tolerated. It wasn’t bad enough to outright deride, but Sherlock hated fiction at the best of times. Still, the man was bound to get some meaty data from the impromptu gathering, with all of the participants being of similar age and of higher than average intelligence.

Even if the second film had been just as wretched as the first, John wouldn’t have cared, because he got to spend it almost as close to Sherlock as he had during the first, squeezed as they were on the small sofa with two other people. And so it was with sleepy contentedness that he followed Sherlock back to their cabin later that night, ready to brush his teeth and crawl into bed with the man whose proximity he was becoming entirely too addicted to.

Which meant that his fantasy came to a screeching halt the moment they entered their suite.

“I’ll be on my way then,” Sherlock announced, gathering a few more sample containers before heading back toward the door.

“What? Sherlock, it’s almost midnight. You should sleep.”

Sherlock scoffed. “You know I don’t keep to a normal sleep pattern.”

“We’re on holiday, though, not on a case.”

“I’m not the least bit tired. I’d keep you awake with my fidgeting.”

“Sherlock–”

“Good night, John.”

The door closed before John could even draw the breath to reply. What the hell? Sherlock had been open and relaxed all evening. What had caused the sudden about face?

Oh. _Stupid, Watson. So stupid._ No need to pretend when there was no one else around, was there? Sherlock had probably been going mental putting on the act as long as he had.

One day in, and John was already forgetting that none of this was real. That Sherlock didn’t actually want to cuddle with him on the sofa and eat dinner with other couples and talk about their daily lives. He was here to gather data and learn. Thusly was yet another of John’s holidays completely ruined.

John scrubbed his face and tried not to let his thoughts bother him too much. He’d known what he was getting into.

He got ready for bed, read for a bit in an attempt to divert his thoughts, then finally slid between the bedclothes to sleep. But, of course, sleep wouldn’t come. His thoughts jumped from the pleasant (kisses and fond smiles) to the unpleasant (Sherlock leaving abruptly) and back again.

He’d finally managed to drift into a doze when the door opened, letting in the light from the corridor. John roused a bit at Sherlock’s familiar sigh as the door closed again. He listened sleepily as Sherlock had a wash and changed his clothes.

He wondered if Sherlock would kip on the sofa, but before long the other side of the bed was dipping under Sherlock’s weight. He shivered a bit at the cool sheets on his side of the large bed before rolling on his side with his back to John. But instead of lying on the edge of the mattress, Sherlock settled closer to the middle.

Still partly asleep, John let out a pleased hum that he hazily hoped would be taken for the regular sounds of a dreaming man, but he couldn’t be bothered to care what Sherlock thought. He was warm, drowsy, and being lulled back to sleep by the even breaths of his bedmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lake House is terrible, but you can’t help but watch it when it’s on TV, amiright? Eternal Sunshine, on the other hand, is great. 
> 
> Also, you just know Sherlock is dashing off because he’s afraid of what will happen if he sleeps in the same bed as John.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets blackmail material on Sherlock, and Sherlock turns into an activities planner.

Despite the late night, John woke refreshed the next day. He wasn’t sure if it was the sea air, the emotional roller coaster that was their first day, or the reassuring presence of Sherlock lying next to him, but he’d slept deeply and peacefully.

He was surprised to find Sherlock still abed as well. He’d thought the man would’ve been up at the crack of dawn, scouring the ship for whatever samples there were to be had, but perhaps he’d found enough the night before. He looked to be sleeping just as deeply as John had recently been, and John took the moment of quiet to watch his friend’s face.

It wasn’t that John had never seen Sherlock’s face in repose, but even when deep within his mind palace or napping on the sofa, there was still a guarded intelligence that hinted that he never truly relaxed. Except now, apparently. His face was slack, his mouth open a tiny bit and, hold on. Was Sherlock Holmes _drooling_? John held in a snort of laughter, his hand aching to reach for his mobile for a picture. His conscience lost the battle to humor, and he grabbed his phone from the bedside table.

Unfortunately, he’d forgotten to check that it was on silent, and the damned thing beeped when he captured the picture. Sherlock groaned and slowly began to wake up, though he didn’t seem to be aware enough to realize what had disturbed him.

John got out of bed and started pulling together toiletries and clothes for a shower, pretending not to watch the adorable and slow way Sherlock roused himself. When he returned ten minutes later, Sherlock had managed to sit up in bed but not much else. He blinked blearily at John, as if trying to remember who he was and what they were doing in the same room.

John set about doctoring two cups of coffee that he’d set to percolating before his shower and handed one to the sleepy man, who took it with a vague nod and settled against the headboard, seemingly content to watch him bustle around the room.

By the time John had prepped a pool bag, finished dressing, and settled on the sofa with his book, Sherlock had stumbled to the lav for his own shower and shave. He emerged fifteen minutes later, looking more his usual self, though he’d acquiesced to John’s suggestion from the day before and had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, foregoing the jacket and coat. He was even wearing jeans. It was odd, seeing him dressed so, but he looked good. Very good. John ignored the thought.

Morning rituals complete, the pair headed to the lido deck for breakfast. Much like the buffet dinner, they were free to grab food whenever they liked and choose their own seating. John waved to one of the couples he recognized from the previous night’s impromptu film, but chose a small table for two at the edge of the deck.

“I know you’re wanting more interaction, but I thought you might like a quiet morning to observe without the distraction of inane table conversation,” John explained, setting his food and tea on the table.

“Other than your own, you mean?” Sherlock clarified, but the words held no venom and were accompanied by the small smile he reserved only for John during their quiet moments.

John laughed, chucked a torn-off bit of toast at his friend, and dug in. “So, what do you have on for the day?”

Sherlock sipped his tea and looked slightly green as he watched John tear into his breakfast. “Studying the staff shift schedule; taking a few samples on the lower decks; rock climbing; tailing the suspicious-looking couple I saw last night—I think they’re just nicking champagne from the dining hall, but I want to confirm—inputting the data I already have into a spreadsheet; cooking class; preliminary sampling in the pools, hot tubs, and saunas; testing those samples; pub quiz–”

“Wait, hold on. You’re going rock climbing? And taking a cooking class?”

“No, John,” Sherlock said with his most long-suffering sigh. “ _We’re_ going rock climbing and taking a cooking class. Both fall under the parameters we agreed upon yesterday. Rock climbing from ten to eleven this morning, and cooking class from two to four this afternoon. And then a pub quiz this evening.”

“You didn’t ask me whether I wanted to do those things.”

“Really, John? All three are acceptable activities. Options are limited, given that we’re on a ship. These were the best. I might perhaps be wrong in scheduling all three for our first full day at sea, but I wanted to begin the holiday with a positive experience. Rock climbing should be easy, given our history chasing London’s criminal population, but different enough to be challenging. You don’t hate cooking, and it’s close enough to chemistry that I should excel at it. And since I know you secretly watch Jeopardy when I’m away, and I’m a genius, we should have no trouble taking first place at a pub quiz.”

Huh. He’d assumed Sherlock would just pick the first activities his eyes landed on in the pamphlet, but apparently he truly was trying to give John a decent holiday experience. If it weren’t for realizations like those he’d had last night, John might actually be able to relax and enjoy himself. He was determined to do a better job of remembering that their relationship was a sham, though. No more mini heartbreaks if he could help it. The big one at the end would be horrible enough.

Rock climbing would be a simple start. Sherlock was right in that it was close to what they already did when chasing criminals across rooftops; and surely John would easily remember that they were just friends during that. Cooking was harder, a bit more couple-based, but he was certain Sherlock would do or say something bombastic or rude. And trivia was easy. They were both extremely competitive and would either be busy trying to one-up one another or beating the hell out of the other teams.

That settled, John nodded his agreement. “Sounds fine.” He finished up his beans and toast, reluctantly downed the cold dregs of his tea, then stood to leave. “I’ll see you at ten then?”

Sherlock nodded and stood as well. John turned to go before being stopped by a reproachful “John.”

He turned back as Sherlock put a hand on the back of his neck, gently pulled him close, and kissed him. It was longer than their two previous kisses, but no deeper. Sherlock pulled back a bit, slid his hand from John’s neck to the side of his face, whispered “Have fun,” gave him another peck, then whirled away as if the world hadn’t just turned upside down. Which, he supposed, it hadn’t. Not for Sherlock anyway. That apparently only happened for himself. He sighed, scrubbed at his face, shook his thoughts free, and headed for the pool. He needed sun and a mindless book to read.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys spend their first full day at sea. John gets revenge on Sherlock for being a trashcan by ... being at trashcan himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know zero about rock climbing. I didn’t even look it up when I wrote this. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“I’m sorry, John. Really. I am.” Sherlock yelled the words as he dangled from his harness at the top of the rock wall later that morning. “I won’t critique your rock climbing skills again, alright? Would you please let me down?”

“Did I just hear Sherlock Holmes use the words 'sorry' and ‘please’?” called John with mock incredulity. It was kind of nice being the one with the power for once.

They had quickly shown their climbing prowess and cajoled the instructor/guide to step away while they spotted each other. Sherlock had used his time holding John’s rope to hurl insults at John’s approach, which had John lobbing some back and plotting to revenge once he was off the wall. He’d had an epiphany when Sherlock was halfway up. Rather than letting slack into the rope when Sherlock was ready to descend, John had taken a few steps back until Sherlock was forced to let go and hang at the whims of his spotter.

John heard a few titters and turned to see that they’d gained an audience, including Marta and Millie from the film night, as well as Alice and Clark. Alice had a hand over her mouth, stifling her laughter, but Marta was taking no such pains, clutching her sides and guffawing loudly.

“Should I take pity?” John asked his audience with a wink. There were a few Yeses, likely from people who had been in a similar situation before or those naturally inclined to niceness, but the majority voted Nay.

“I still haven’t forgotten the decaying frog that lived in our loo sink. I had to brush my teeth in the shower for a week, and I’m pretty sure the smell still hasn’t dissipated!” John yelled up to Sherlock. “Oh! And we can’t forget that you neglected to properly label the spleen you put in the crisper. We have rules for body parts, Sherlock!”

That shocked his audience into silence. “Oh, don’t worry,” he reassured them. “He’s just a bit of a mad scientist. Perfectly normal. Well, normal-ish. Well, not needing to be sectioned … often.” He shut up before he made matters worse. Plus, Sherlock was yelling back down.

“Apart from the spleen, I haven’t failed to label a project in at least four months. And I found the frog just as unpleasant as you did. But it needed to be done. For a case! You know that. Now please, please let me down.”

John pretended to consider it. He was really only aiming for one thing. “No more testing perfumes in the flat, okay?”

“Fine, yes. You’re right, it’s a bit headache inducing.”

Sherlock Holmes calling John H. Watson right. He wished he’d been recording this. Oh well. It would have to live in his memory alone.

“Coming down!” John called, stepping forward while slowly walking the rope through his hands. He stopped when there was enough rope for Sherlock to be able to swing toward the wall and grab onto the wall, then began adding slack as Sherlock climbed down.

Everyone applauded when Sherlock reached the ground. He turned and gave a small bow before stalking over to John. “You’re such a tosser” he said, but there was laughter in his voice and his eyes. John grinned cheekily and was caught completely unawares when Sherlock locked his arms behind John’s back, dipped him, and swooped down for a kiss.

This one was longer than all three previous kisses combined. John’s surprise left him with lips slightly parted, and Sherlock slanted his own over John’s, their breaths mixing together. Seconds and millennia later, Sherlock returned them to their upright positions but didn’t back away.

Caught in the high of the kiss, he grabbed Sherlock’s head, giving him a quick, hard kiss before whirling around and looking at their audience, eyebrow raised. They applauded again and broke apart to return to their own climbing.

Millie sidled up next to him as Marta climbed into a harness nearby and Sherlock went to extricate himself from his. “Pranks aside, you two work very well together. Marta and I have been climbing together for years, and our level of silent communication is not as good. How long have you been doing this?”

“Never. Or a year and a half, depending on how you parse it.”

Millie raised her eyebrows in question, and John huffed out a laugh.

“We’ve never been rock climbing. Or, at least, I haven’t. I’m not sure about Sherlock. But we end up running around London, bouncing through alleyways, and climbing fire escapes often enough that we’ve become good at silent communication. When your decisions are life or death, you learn quickly.”

“Life or …?”

“Death, yeah.” John loved watching people when he explained what they did for a living. “He’s a consulting detective for New Scotland Yard with a penchant for catching murderers. I help. Dangerous weapons are involved more often than not.” He shrugged. “Rock walls seem pretty tame in comparison.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” Millie agreed faintly. “Well, I should …” she trailed off, gesturing toward her girlfriend, who was waiting to begin her climb. “Ummm, good luck. With the, uh, killers and decaying frogs.”

“Thanks,” John replied, pulling off the last of his climbing equipment and searching out his street shoes.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Sherlock said, coming to stand directly in front of John. The man had no concept of personal space, even after a year and a half. Not that John minded. Usually. And now it worked in their favor.

He looked up at Sherlock. It was odd seeing him in a t-shirt and gym shorts, but he had apparently brought more appropriate attire than just jeans. Strange, but nice. Speaking of. “I’m not a nice man,” he shot back.

Sherlock’s brow crinkled. “Yes you are. You’re the be–”

“I’m a good man, supposedly. But that doesn’t make me nice.” John grinned and winked at Sherlock before stepping away to sling his bag over his shoulder. “I think I’m going to do a quick rinse off, then head to lunch. See you at two?”

“I could–” Sherlock stopped when John turned back to look at him, then forged on. “I could join you for lunch. I’m a bit peckish and in between experiments.” He must have taken John’s stunned expression for something negative, because he began to backtrack. “Of course, if you have plans, I can–”

“No! I mean. Yes, Sherlock, I would like it if you joined me for lunch.” John wasn’t sure if Sherlock’s explanation was real or if he was playing some other angle, but he decided not to care and just concentrate on enjoying the extra time together.

They had a quiet meal, Sherlock deducing and scribbling in his notebook whilst John people watched in the normal way, sometimes asking questions or making up his own stories in his head. They had always done this well, sitting in silence, not feeling a need to fill the air with words.

They parted after lunch, Sherlock to do who knew what and John to wander for a while. He wondered how long it would take before he was following Sherlock around from sun-up to sun-down. He didn’t like being unoccupied; it made him antsy. Most of the activities required a couple, though, so those were out. He was left with the pool, the gym, shuffleboard (yup, they really had the game onboard), the duty-free shops, the bars and coffee shops, the library, and wandering.

He ended up at the shops, and when he returned to the suite before cooking class, he was weighed down with a couple of liquor bottles, chocolate, and a ridiculously touristy shirt that he would somehow get Sherlock to wear before the week was over.

He was just getting ready to leave when Sherlock burst through the door, grinning like a loon. “Oh, you’re here, John.” His smile grew even brighter.

“Okay, where’s the body?”

“Pardon?”

“You look entirely too happy. Someone must have been murdered.”

Sherlock’s smile transformed into a frown. “I don’t only smile when there’s been a murder.”

“No, but the two do frequently occur together.”

“No body,” he replied with an eye roll. “It’s just that I had a productive time.”

“Oh yeah? What’d you get up to then?” John asked, still not trusting that something exciting hadn’t occurred.

Sherlock nattered on about mold scrapings and the effects of UV light and a host of other things as he shed his bag, changed his shirt—his old one splattered with something John preferred not to ask about—and led John back into the corridor to walk to their cooking class. His chatter lulled John into a feeling of deep contentment, and he didn’t even think before taking Sherlock’s hand in his as they walked, causing a moment’s pause in the stream of words before Sherlock continued as if nothing had happened. John smiled to himself at having managed to throw his friend off guard, if only for a moment.

Predictably, Sherlock was able to pick up the basics of cooking in an hour and produced a more than adequate dish by the end of the second hour, despite having never used a stove for its actual purposes even once in his life, at least as far as John was aware.

“Let’s do this again tomorrow, John,” Sherlock pleaded happily as they exited the room.

“Does this mean you’ll start doing some of the cooking?”

“Well, not regularly. But if we have no case and I’ve no experiments running, I might find it helpful for improving my mood.”

John stopped walking. “Okay. Yeah, that would be nice, yeah.” Sherlock never cared about the black moods that arrived during long stretches between cases. In fact, John was sure he sort of reveled in them, so the idea that Sherlock was attempting to avoid his sulks must mean that he was doing it for John, who had so many times tried to persuade him out of the flat before the situation got too bad.

“John?” Sherlock stopped beside him. “Alright?”

“What?” John came out of his thoughts. “Yeah. Alright. Just, the idea of you being domestic. It’s a bit …”

“Amusing?”

“Nice,” John reasoned with a smile at Sherlock and continued walking.

They parted soon after, Sherlock to the sauna and John to the pool, where he swam a few laps before collapsing on a deck chair with his book.

“I wish you wouldn’t read those things. The banality will rot your brain.”

John looked up to see six feet of tall, dark, and handsome blocking the setting sun. “I’m on holiday. I’m not going to read medical journals.”

“There are other–”

“Or chemistry journals or physics journals or zoological journals or any other kind of journal. I want something mind numbing. It’s called a beach read for a reason.”

“We’re not on the beach. Although we’re on the lido deck, and lido is Italian for beach, so …”

John sighed. “Did you need something?”

“Why would I need something?”

“This is our individual time. If you’re here, you must need help with something.”

Sherlock looked hurt. “No, I just wanted to observe for a while. I was already here taking pool samples, so when I saw you, I thought I’d join you.”

He plopped down on the end of John’s chair, elbow on knee, chin in hand. John went back to his book but was brought back out almost immediately.

“Has your day been enjoyable?”

“What?” He put down his book in surprise.

“Have you enjoyed your first full day on the ship?” Sherlock asked again, obviously annoyed at the repetition.

John was supremely confused. Sherlock had never asked him about his day. He didn’t need to. He could take one look at John and know exactly where he’d been and what his feelings were about it. John didn’t mind not being asked. He actually liked that Sherlock could read him in a glance. It was … intimate somehow.

And, indeed, Sherlock appeared to be reading him again, because he explained further. “Is it not normal for couples to ask each other how they are doing?”

“Oh, right. Umm, yeah. It’s been fine.”

“Just fine? You enjoyed the climbing wall and the cooking class, did you not?” Sherlock put his hand on John’s calf and began stroking it with his thumb.

John had to work hard to concentrate on the conversation. “Umm, yeah, those were … those were great fun.”

“But the rest was unpleasant.”

“Not unpleasant.” Christ, Sherlock really needed to stop touching him now. “Just not … exciting.”

Sherlock grinned. “You miss home as much as I do.”

“Shut it. It’s just that all the activities are couple-based, so there’s not much to do on my own.”

“And your habits are ingrained. Even here you do the shopping.”

John rolled his eyes. “Liquor and chocolate aren’t exactly milk and pasta.”

Sherlock shrugged but said nothing.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” John asked after a few minutes of silence.

“We arrive at our first port. I thought I’d explore. You could … you could come with me, if you want. I know it’s more than the agreed-upon hour for morning activities, but …”

John chuckled. “It’s fine, Sherlock. I’d love to go with you.”

Sherlock looked up, almost shyly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m quickly realizing that you never ruined my holidays. I ruined them myself because they’re boring.”

“Why do you think I interrupted them all?”

John sat, stunned. “You wanker. You knew I’d be bored, didn’t you? Why didn’t you just say something?”

“And what reason would you have for listening to me?”

“True.” John huffed out a laugh, and they grinned at each other.

They sat for a while longer before Sherlock stood, offering his hand to help John up. “Come, you smell terrible and we’ve got dinner soon.”

“I do n–” John stopped his retort of indignation. Oh. The Pool. Bad memories. Right. “Yeah. Yes, I need a shower.” He put his hand in Sherlock’s and let the man pull him up before tugging him in for a quick kiss.

Sherlock straightened up with a small, crooked smile that John had never seen before. He really was a _very_ good actor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As my beta said, “Oh John.” He is such a clueless idiot. Also, have you noticed that despite Sherlock’s insistence that he closely study couple and group dynamics, he and John eat alone a good deal? Wonder why.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a snazzy new suit, and Sherlock talks in his sleep.

They’d decided on one of the formal restaurants for dinner that night. Sherlock took one look at the suit John had brought (his only suit, left over from Harry’s wedding), and declared they needed to go shopping. Then he muttered the whole time about not being able to get anything bespoke. John just went along with it. If Sherlock could make allowances for John’s needs, then he could let Sherlock dress him up however he saw fit. The end result seemed very nice to John’s undiscerning eye, and Sherlock declared it—after a long sigh—passable.

“I’ll let you pick out something nicer when we get back to London, okay?” John promised as they left the shop.

“Really?” Sherlock’s eyes lit up.

“Yes. It would be nice to have something besides the suit I wore to Harry’s wedding on hand. Well, and now this one. We’re bound to end up at some fancy shindig for a case eventually.”

Sherlock smiled. “Quite right.”

“You’re paying for it, though.”

“I can do that.”

“Well then”—John crooked his arm for Sherlock to take—“Shall we?”

Sherlock began dinner in a quiet and polite manner, but by the halfway point, he was deducing everyone around him, much to the delight of Alice, Clark, Isla, and Alf—all of whom had agreed to join them—who managed to make a drinking game out of it. John thought that they’d become a bit too rowdy by the end, likely annoying the tables around them, but he was having too much fun to really care.

After learning that Alf and Isla could fill John and Sherlock’s knowledge gaps, the four decided to form a team for the pub quiz, and they waved off Clark and Alice—who had opted for dancing instead—before heading to the bar for the game.

As expected, they trounced the other teams. And somehow, just as had happened that morning, they had an audience by the end. John wasn’t sure how it had happened, given that Isla and Alf were rather quiet, as was John, usually, and Sherlock was far from being a people pleaser (though he did like showing off a great deal), but he and Sherlock were somehow gaining a reputation for being the most entertaining couple onboard. It was so far removed for how things usually went. And while John didn’t want their life to be like this all the time, it was fun for a while. The alcohol helped, he was sure.

However, exactly like the previous night, as soon as they returned to the room, Sherlock’s amiability evaporated, and he flounced out the door after excusing himself vaguely.

John, more prepared this time, merely sighed and got himself ready for bed. He mused on Sherlock’s mood changes later that night, unable to sleep. While he wasn’t expecting chipper, loving boyfriend Sherlock, it wasn’t as if he was usually a complete ogre when it was just the two of them in their flat. He had his black moods and sometimes got tetchy between cases, but if he had plenty to keep him interested, he had no reason to go so abruptly cold every night. Unable to come up with a reason, John decided to just be thankful that Sherlock was behaving the rest of the time.

The matter as settled as it could be for the moment, John finally drifted off to sleep. He apparently slept through Sherlock’s return, because when he next awoke, the clock read just after three, and the bed was filled with warm detective just centimeters away from him. John was wondering what had woken him when Sherlock began to mumble, and he realized that it was his friend’s voice that had pulled him from sleep.

“There’s a ship in the distance. Tell the men to hoist the sails, John, and prepare a boarding party,” Sherlock muttered.

John raised an eyebrow. Apparently being on a ship brought out Sherlock’s pirate side. He listened in amusement as his bedmate continued to give him—apparently the first mate—instructions for boarding the nearing vessel, before devolving into talk of the weather, then, oddly, an impassioned speech about the superiority of quiche over omelets.

Sherlock soon quieted, much to his disappointment, leaving John to once again contemplate Sherlock’s actions. Despite the cold dismissals, he still returned to the room, and even deigned to share a bed with John, so he didn’t appear to be upset with him. It was more like he was hiding something, but what? He tried to think on it, but soon sleep claimed him.

When John woke again, light shined through the window. This time, he was disturbed not by Sherlock’s adorable sleep talking, but a tickle at his nose. He narrowly stopped it just before he sneezed—straight into his friend’s curly mop apparently. John had woken the previous morning to find only a few centimeters of space between the two of them despite the large bed, hinting that Sherlock was probably a bit of a heat-seeking missile in sleep. This time, however, there was no space between them whatsoever, though all limbs were still in their own spaces. They both lay on their right sides, Sherlock’s back to John’s front, with John’s nose almost buried in dark curls.

Nose twitching ominously again, John backed away to avoid a second near-sneeze. Cataloguing his body, he found the move a smart one as he realized his morning wood had made its appearance. It was natural, of course, but Sherlock waking up to John’s dick making friends with his backside should be avoided at all cost. Slightly awkward at best, and downright horrifying if Sherlock was sex-repulsed. John had no evidence of the latter, but his friend did at the very least seem bored with the whole concept of sex, and John wanted to avoid Sherlock’s put-upon sigh, along with the complaints of John being so plebeian. So instead of staying in the cocoon of warmth, John dragged himself out of bed to get ready for the day.

As expected, the amiable Sherlock was back when he finally woke up, and the two shared a quick breakfast before disembarking in Sardinia for a day of sightseeing. They didn’t have to play the couple card much, having chosen to spend the day by themselves, but John still found himself leading Sherlock with a guiding hand, and on several occasions, he was the recipient of a rumbling voice close to his ear. “Habit” was his shameful apology when his hand crept up a third time, and, later that morning, when John’s questioning gaze landed on their joined hands, Sherlock shrugged and said “There could be fellow shipmates around. Best keep up the ruse.” Not about to argue, he just tightened his hand a bit as he pulled Sherlock into a tea shop, determined to find a gift for Mrs. Hudson.

John had half expected the detective to sniff out some sort of criminal activity during their time in port, but Sherlock seemed to have finally slid into holiday mode, and the day proceeded comfortably. They returned to the ship with nary a single dash through the streets chasing criminals, but they still managed to have a good time.

They ran into Millie and Marta on the way back to the ship and promised to meet up with them for dinner that night. After an easy dinner, the two men ended the day in their cabin with some black and white film about two people who worked together in a shop and supposedly hated one another, but who turned out to be pen pals in love with each other. There appeared to be a dearth of non-romance films available, but this one wasn’t half bad.

Sherlock fell asleep before the end and was mumbling something about jewel thieves writing letters when John walked out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth. He smiled and crawled between the sheets. He briefly considered recording the rambling story but fell asleep before he could manage to fetch his mobile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore the idea of Sherlock being a sleeptalker. Although as someone married to a sleepwalker, it’s mostly just kind of weird in real life. But it's cute here!
> 
> Edit: Thanks to Dclements01 for the reminder that I wanted to name the movie they watch at the end. It's _The Shop Around the Corner_ , a 1940 flick starring Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullavan. It's a pretty cute movie and the basis for '90s film _You've Got Mail_.
> 
> Edit 2: The super duper awesome Celtic_Lady was kind enough to spend the time making a cover based on Sherlock's adorable dream in this chapter. It's freaking amazing and you should all go stare at it in awe. <https://celticlady00.tumblr.com/post/183779061354/a-book-cover-artwork-for-nutmeag83s-story-on-ao3>


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys find a case to look into on the high seas. Hiding in closets is involved.

Having admitted his boredom with being a normal tourist, John readily agreed to tailing a shifty cruise employee after breakfast the next morning.

“And what’ll you be doing while I try not to look too obvious or like an idiot?” he asked, shoveling the rest of his eggs into his mouth.

“Gathering evidence,” Sherlock replied, focused on his phone.

“What evidence? I still don’t know what I’m meant to be watching for. What’d she do?”

“Smuggling.”

John tamped down his frustration. Sherlock was at his most vague when he either wanted attention or was too buried in his brain to realize his lack of clarification. Neither case would be overcome by getting annoyed.

“So I need to be looking for …?”

“Odd conversations. Going places she’s not meant to be. Acting out of character. Really, John, you know how to tail someone.”

John breathed and closed his eyes. Counted to three. “Yes, but you haven’t told me what’s going on. I don’t know who she is. How am I supposed to know what’s abnormal? I don’t even know her job description.”

Sherlock looked up from his phone and cocked his head. “Oh. Right. You weren’t there yesterday.”

At this pronouncement, John relaxed and fought a grin. It had taken him months to realize it wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t notice him leaving. More that he always had things to tell him and, deep in his head as he went, he forgot to check whether John was there before speaking to him. It was a little flattering.

“So?”

“It’s the activities director. She’s been on the job four months. Previously worked in a museum on Malta, suddenly decided to switch over to cruise management. I theorize she’s smuggling archeological items. Probably met someone in her old job who offered her a cut if she found and moved the items. I need proof though, so I need to search her room.”

“So I’m not watching her for proof, I’m making sure she doesn’t stumble on you illegally searching?”

“Well yes. But you might see notice something I missed …”

“Really.”

“It _could_ happen.”

John rolled his eyes. “Right. Fine. Show me where her room is, and if I see her heading that way, I’ll … make up a cruise activity emergency.”

“You could just flirt with her.” Was he imagining things, or did Sherlock’s tone sound a little bitter?

“Why would I do that?”

“Because that’s what you do with women. Even on a case. _Especially_ on a case.”

Definitely some bitter undertones. Did that mean he disliked it when John flirted with other people? Or was it just that he minded him getting distracted when he was supposed to be working?

“The flirting isn’t a distraction on a case. It’s the same as when you scare people when questioning them. Or when you put on an act to infiltrate. They’re all just tools to get quick answers.”

“At least I don’t ask them out after,” Sherlock muttered.

“That was one time!”

With a wave of his hand, Sherlock changed the subject. “We need to go, John. Ms. Lane’s next activity starts in five minutes, and I want to be done before eleven so we can make it to cooking class.”

“Fine.”

John gathered their breakfast detritus, turning away from the table to find Sherlock right behind him, looking simultaneously mulish and uncertain. Feeling brave, he leaned up and in, his lips landing firmly on Sherlock’s. He held the kiss for a moment longer than usual, trying to convey things he wasn’t ready to say with words. “I won’t flirt with her. Now go do your B&E.” With a nudge to Sherlock’s hip, he grinned his way to the rubbish bins, not letting himself turn to look at the reaction he’d incited.

***

The high from his bravery lasted through morning trivia in the café, hosted by Ms. Lane. After the event, he tailed her as she went about her business, thankfully never nearing her rooms. Looking at his watch to find it was almost time for cooking class, he veered off, hoping Sherlock was also keeping an eye on the time.

He must have been, because John found him already standing at a table in the classroom, rearranging cooking implements to his satisfaction. He looked over as John sidled up next to him. “Anything?” he asked, going back to his fidgeting.

“No flirting,” John shot back with a grin. He swore he saw rosy cheeks.

“That’s not– I didn’t–”

He took pity and went into debrief mode. “I didn’t notice her acting odd. Not that it matters. You were doing the important work. Find anything?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe. Some papers. Nothing too incriminating. I didn’t think she was stupid enough to put evidence in her office, but I’ll try this afternoon anyway.”

“Which means more tailing for me?” If he’d wanted to be this bored and alone, he could have continued leaving Sherlock to his own devices.

“No. She has rehearsal for the big show from two until five. I’d rather you keep a watch outside the office. More chance of a random person coming ‘round there than to her room.”

John nodded in agreement and relief. He always felt better watching Sherlock’s back than having them split up. Before they could discuss further, class began, and they had to focus on their food. Or at least Sherlock focused. John found himself distracted by lean hands chopping veg, pale eyes scrunching in concentration, a thoughtful finger tapping on a lower lip.

Spurred on by those enticing images and his earlier bravery, John threw himself into playing half of a loving couple. Except that he was done pretending. His actions were honest and real. The first few hip nudges and soft caresses went unnoticed, but when he wiped a smudge away from Sherlock’s cheek and let his hand linger, eyes widened in comprehension. John smiled and went back to his task, letting the moment sink in. After that, the advances went both ways, each man seeming to find reasons to touch the other, to offer a soft look. They managed plenty of their usual banter and light bickering in between, keeping it from being too out of the ordinary. Later, they enjoyed the fruits of their labor, hunched over shared plates as they giggled and nudged one another playfully.

***

Post lunch found them outside Ms. Lane’s office, Sherlock using a stolen key card to unlock the door while John kept a lookout down the hall, their suspect safely occupied for the next few hours. That didn’t stop John from feeling anxious and fidgety while he waited in the quiet corridor, his mind coming up with all manner of ways they might be caught. After his third text of “anything?”, Sherlock shoved the door open, motioned John inside, and closed the door behind them.

“What?”

“If you’re going to be a ninny, help me so this will go faster.” Sherlock pointed to an open drawer. “Check those files.”

John glared but did as told. A few minutes later, he found it. “Sherlock. Here.” He handed over a file full of papers on ancient statues that had been hidden beneath the others and watched his friend’s face light up in a way that made his stomach flip.

“Oh yes. Perfect.” Sherlock looked through the papers, took a few pictures, then handed it back to John. “Put it back exactly as you found it.”

“Yeah, I know. Needs to be found legally, no signs of tampering.”

Just as they finished tidying, a woman’s voice carried down the corridor. Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled him into the small cupboard, shutting them into stuffy darkness just as the lock beeped and the door opened.

“–meeting time tonight. Engine trouble has us pulling into port two hours later than scheduled.” There was a pause as Ms. Lane apparently listened to someone at the other end of a phone call. “I can’t predict these things. Surely you can lose a little sleep for a million-pound statue.” Pause. “Of course I’m sure. I have an archeology degree and years of practice.” She huffed and opened a drawer. Her mobile made the old-fashioned camera noise that signaled it was capturing a picture. “Check the photo I just sent. It’s real. I have to get back to rehearsal now.” She listened, then laughed. “It’s not so bad actually. A nice change from dusty museums, plus I meet interesting people. Maybe you should …” Her voice faded as the door shut behind her.

John debated pulling a flirty move while they were closed in together but knew Sherlock would be too involved with the case to notice. Too bad, a snog would’ve been fun. After waiting a while to make sure the suspect was gone, he opened the cupboard door and breathed in fresh air. Glancing at his friend, he noticed pink cheeks.

“Alright? You’re flushed.” His hand went up to do a temperature check, but Sherlock ducked away.

“Fine. A bit claustrophobic is all.”

John frowned. They’d been in tighter spaces before without Sherlock showing any signs of distress. Oh. Perhaps his advances _wouldn’t_ have been scorned in the cupboard … He shook his head to clear it of tempting ideas. They had other concerns at the moment.

“What now?”

“Inform security.”

“Really?”

Sherlock huffed, back to his usual self. “I don’t have Lestrade here to just take my word for it after we apprehend the suspect. Security will want to observe the meeting themselves, after I show them the evidence,” he explained, twiddling his phone for emphasis.

John grinned. “Lead the way.”

***

It took some convincing, but the head of security eventually agreed to surveil the meetup between Ms. Lane and her partner, which Sherlock had deduced would take place thirty minutes after the ship was to dock, during the cruise’s big black-tie event when most people would be otherwise occupied.

John had thought it unnecessary, since they wouldn’t be near the party, but Sherlock convinced him they should still try to blend in by wearing their tuxes—a surprise to John since he hadn’t brought one.

“You didn’t have to get me such a nice one,” John complained as they got ready that evening. He fidgeted with his sapphire blue bowtie before giving in and looking up instructions on his phone.

“Of course I did.”

He was startled to feel arms wrap around him. He looked into the mirror to see Sherlock concentrating on the bowtie. “I can’t have my boyfriend dressed in cheap polyester and cotton. He deserves the best.”

John cleared his throat from the sudden emotions caused by the sweet words. “Well then. Thank you. You chose well.”

“I know,” came the soft reply.

Their eyes met through the mirror, but before either could speak, Sherlock’s mobile rang. The game was on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thwarted just as things were getting good! But hey, they’re finally showing their hands a little.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys celebrate a successful case with dancing and drunk Rizla.

The actual takedown was anticlimactic. With employees unable to leave the ship without having been given approval, Ms. Lane’s stepping off the boat alone was enough cause for security to question her. They waited until she met with her partner before apprehending both parties, and security took it from there, not letting Sherlock question them at all. He yielded too easily, and he and John made their way back toward their room with nary a complaint, making John suspicious.

“Not going to throw a wobbly at being kicked out?” he asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Hmm? No. Why?” Sherlock frowned.

“You always want to question the suspects. Or more like, you want to lord it over everyone that you knew everything.”

“Oh. Chief of security didn’t look like he’d appreciate me horning in.”

“Never stopped you before.”

Sherlock shrugged and slowed his walk. Music wafted in from the nearby bar. Filled with people in posh dress, it was apparently part of the black-tie night. “Celebration drink?” he asked with a grin.

“Sure. Why not.” John couldn’t help is own smile as Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him into the din.

***

After a drink, they decided to wander into the party proper over in the ballroom, where they came across Alice and Clark. They chatted for a while, Sherlock boasting of their day’s adventures, after which John and Clark went to fetch fresh drinks.

As they returned, Sherlock, back turned to John, said to Alice, “Oh, I adore dancing. Doesn’t really come up in casework unfortunately …”

“Does it have to be for a case?” John asked, the events of the day leading him to further bravery. He was a shite dancer but couldn’t be bothered to care.

Sherlock whirled. “John!”

With a nod to the dancers, John set down their drinks and offered Sherlock his hand. “It’s a slow song. I think I can manage this one. But I apologize in advance if I step on your toes.”

Slowly, hesitant fingers raised to grasp his. John winked at their friends, then led his partner out on the dance floor.

“You don’t have to–”

“But I want to.”

Sherlock’s nose scrunched in confusion. “Why?”

“I like making you happy.”

They could have talked about it then—they would definitely have to at some point—but with tacit understanding, they let this quiet moment just happen. And John found that with Sherlock, he wasn’t such a shite dancer after all.

***

One more slow song, three fast ones, and two drinks later, they made it back to their cabin. John expected to read by himself while Sherlock did his usual nighttime disappearing act, but surprisingly he stayed, instead wheedling John into playing a game.

“Pleeeeease, John. It’s too early for bed.”

“Don’t you need to check up on your mold or something?”

“The mold is fine. This ship is boring, and I _need_ to be entertained.”

“I could put on a film.”

“We’ve seen three films this week already,” Sherlock whined, flopping onto the bed.

“Who Am I?”

“John Watson. Have you suddenly got amnesia?”

John laughed. “No, the drinking game. We both write names of famous people on pieces of paper. I take yours and you take mine. We each stick one to our forehead and ask questions until we can deduce who we’re meant to be.”

Sherlock raised his head in interest. “I’ll win, you know.”

“Don’t be so sure about that. Remember that you didn’t answer a single pop culture question at either trivia event we’ve attended. Thank God we had Alf. Oh, and you have to use proper famous people, not the man who invented the petri dish or the first forensic scientist. People who you see in papers and magazines.”

“Fine. Yes.” Sherlock sat all the way up, shoved off his shoes, and sat cross-legged on the bed, elbows on knees and fingers steepled beneath his chin.

John got rid of his footwear as well, then went looking for paper. The room had a big notepad they could tear into pieces … “Oh, give me your Rizla papers.” There was a reason some people called the game Rizla, after all.

“I’m not smoking right now.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed before pointing to his smaller suitcase. “Side pocket. I’m really not smoking, though.”

“I know. But they’re your security blanket.”

He scowled but conceded the point. John grabbed biros off the desk and split up the items between them.

“Remember. Famous people.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock replied, waving him off. “I understand the rules. They’re not that difficult.”

An hour later found them both quite pissed on Glen Livet and having a harder time getting through a round than they had in the beginning. They were surprisingly even, John having taken pity on Sherlock’s lack of pop culture knowledge and written down mostly historical figures. It was time for the tie-breaker round.

John drunkenly realized that they were sitting rather close, both with their legs crossed, knees touching and leaning toward each other, but John found himself unable to move away. He could smell the last of Sherlock’s aftershave and the scotch on his breath. This was … nice. Usually when they played games, one or the other ended up more than a little tetchy. Apparently they just needed alcohol to solve that problem. He filed that away for later, when he could think a bit more coherently.

Sherlock squinted muzzily. “Your go.”

John took a moment to situate himself, but lost his balance and ended up with his nose in Sherlock’s neck. He giggled and sat back up before shrugging in vague apology. John felt like he was missing something, but his brain wasn’t working well enough to sort it out. “Am I a woman?” he asked instead.

Sherlock looked at him for a second, then snorted.

“What? I mean my person.” John pointed to the paper stuck to his head.

“Yes.”

Okay, this sitting up thing needed to stop. The room was beginning to spin. He fell sideways and collapsed on the pillow leaning against the headboard. Ahh, that was better.

“Am I ... Kate Middleton?”

Sherlock followed suit and landed on his own pillow. They were now half-lying, half propped up on their sides, facing each other. Still close.

“Who?”

John gave an exaggerated sigh. He really wasn’t surprised. “The Duchess of Cambridge, wife of Prince William …”

“Oh.” Sherlock waved the answer away. “No. My turn.” He scrunched up his face while he thought, which was entirely too adorable.

John stretched his legs out while he waited for Sherlock to deduce, accidentally brushing Sherlock’s shin with his foot. And, for whatever stupid reason (it was the alcohol, totally the alcohol), John left it there, sliding it in between Sherlock’s calves.

Sherlock stuttered for just a moment, then continued, listing out the answers to his earlier line of questioning. “I’m-I’m a man … English, smart, important, nice when I’m not being too arrogant.” He stared off into space for a while, then huffed. “I don’t know. Prince William?”

“You’re just saying that because I guessed Kate.”

“Well how am I supposed to know what stupid society-obsessed people you know? This is boring. I don’t want to play anymore.”

Sherlock peeled the sticky paper from his forehead and looked at it. John removed his own to see “Scary Spice” scrawled in Sherlock’s usual messy writing and almost missed the quiet “Oh” next to him.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m not nice. And I’m not important to people. Not in the way that–” Sherlock began quietly.

“You’re nice to me, to Mrs. Hudson. Hell, sometimes you’re even nice to Greg and Molly.”

“But–”

“And you _are_ important,” John barreled on. Somehow, even in his fuzzy state, he knew that Sherlock wasn’t talking about the cases he’d solved or the people he’d saved. He was talking about the importance one has as a friend. “You are the _most_ important person in my life, Sherlock. I don’t know where I’d be if I hadn’t run into Mike the day we met. You gave my life meaning.” He had so much he wanted to say to Sherlock, but he didn’t have the words. So, as he did when words failed him, he acted.

John put a hand on Sherlock’s cheek. They were so close. It was entirely too easy to lean forward and press his lips to Sherlock’s. The tiny part of his brain that was still working was screaming _No, no. Idiot! Stupid! Stupid! Stop it. Stop it now! This is BAD. This is VERY BAD_. But it was quickly drowned out by his body saying _Yes. This. Oh yes. Don’t stop. Finally!_

John was about to lean back to gauge the reaction when Sherlock gave the tiniest of moans—almost more of a breath—opened his mouth, and pulled John closer.

Oh. Yes. That was better. There were lips, tongues, breath, noses, necks, hands, all dizzyingly wonderful and warm. Christ, he had wanted this for so long. Had denied himself because Sherlock said he was married to his job. Had been ready to stay by Sherlock’s side as merely his friend, just so he could have danger highs and giggles in the backs of cabs, just to see Sherlock’s gorgeous face for as long as possible.

But now … now there was kissing, and it was better than John could have ever imagined. But why was it happening now? Had he been just too blind to see it before? Had Sherlock been giving him signals all along, or was this new, because of their pretenses as a couple. Had it allowed Sherlock to see them in this new way? Or … was it just the alcohol and the close quarters. John pulled back far enough to look at Sherlock’s face, trying to read it amidst the hormones and alcohol.

“What does this mean for …  What about The W–”

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock growled. Oh God, that voice. He would do _anything_ for that voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Dancing and drunk Rizla?!? And then they finally kiss?!? Meagan, you spoil us.” I know. ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some morning after tension, a day at port, and a much-needed midnight talk.

His tongue was sticky. His mouth tasted awful. He had a headache to rival the one that had accompanied his last concussion, and ugh, there was a bit of nausea when he moved. Christ. John hadn’t been this hungover in years. What had made him think it was smart to drink that much? Oh, right. Rizla. Sherlock’s face enticingly close to his. Yes, it was all coming back to him now.

John turned on his side and realized he was wearing far less clothing than he’d had on during the game, and none of the remaining pieces were of the pajama variety. Several images of naked skin and memories of hot hands on said skin came to mind. Right. Can’t forget about _that_. Not that he wanted to. It was burned into his brain, despite the amount of alcohol that had been running through his veins at the time. Had they really …? Yes, they had. Bad idea. Terrible idea. The _best_ idea ever.

What was going to happen now? How was Sherlock going to react now that he was sober? Why had he gone along with it in the first place? Yes, there was the alcohol to consider, but he didn’t do anything without thinking it through first. Even a drunk Sherlock would’ve been able to pull away from John, had he so chosen.

So why hadn’t he? Had he done it for the act? To stay in character? Had he merely been curious, and since John seemed amenable, had let it happen? Was it just sex that he was curious about, or was it sex with John? John wasn’t sure of his friend’s virgin/non-virgin status. Well, he was _now_ , but before. Had Sherlock ever had sex before? Mycroft didn’t think so, but siblings tended to have blinders concerning each other. John knew there hadn’t been anyone recently—Sherlock had made it more than clear that all physical weakness was to be ignored for the sake of The Work—but maybe there had been once. University maybe? When he was using? After, in order to keep from using again? John didn’t know much about Sherlock’s past. Just small, random details mentioned casually. Nothing significant.

So what now? What was John meant to do? Kiss his bedmate awake? Try for a second (oh, umm, _third_ ) round? Get up and ignore the whole thing? Sit there and talk it out with Sherlock? His body decided it for him, demanding the toilet, pain reliever, and a shower.

When he returned, Sherlock was awake, had the coffee going, and was gathering his things. That did not bode well for either morning sex or talking about last night’s events. Sure enough, as John dropped his dirty clothes on the bed, Sherlock took a stack of clean clothes into the bathroom with him, avoiding John’s gaze.

“We’re late,” he croaked. “You’ll have to skip breakfast if you want to make it into Florence this morning. If– if you still want to come with me.”

He shut the door before John could answer. Great. It was going to be a cracking day.

***

Though quieter, Sherlock returned to his usual manners (or lack thereof) within an hour of going ashore. John followed his lead and said nothing of the previous night. They wandered the streets; Sherlock deduced, John window-shopped. They met up with Alice and Clark for lunch, which Sherlock merely picked at but John devoured, having missed breakfast. They returned to the ship around mid-afternoon, and Sherlock declared he was going to the lower decks to check on some things.

John considered skipping the kiss, even though they were still with Alice and Clark, but there was an almost physical ache from Sherlock keeping his distance most of the day, so John grabbed Sherlock’s hand, stood on tiptoe, and gave the man a small peck on the lips.

An emotion John couldn’t read passed quickly over Sherlock’s face. He turned away before John could look further, quickly heading away from the remaining group.

Clark looked first at the fleeing Sherlock and then at John in concern.

“Everything alright?”

John tried for a smile but wasn’t terribly successful. “Yeah. Fine. Just a little misunderstanding. He needs time alone, I think.”

“Okay. Well, if you need to talk …”

John nodded dismissively. “Sure. Cheers, mate.”

“We were going to sit at the pool for a little while. You’re welcome to join us,” Alice offered, her own concern evident. “No therapy session, promise. You and Clark can talk about writing.”

“Oh yeah! I found your blog last night. I can’t believe that’s your life.”

John’s smile was a bit more genuine this time. “Yeah. Some days I can’t believe it either. And yeah, I think the pool is just what the doctor ordered.”

He talked about his blog with Clark for a while at the pool, then read before heading up to their suite to prepare for dinner. There were no signs that Sherlock had been by while he was out. Just as John was putting on his shoes, Sherlock came in, dumping his now ever-present messenger bag on the bed, his body following.

“Hey,” John said quietly, leaning over so that he could put his hand on the other side of Sherlock’s hip and look him in the face. “You coming to dinner?”

Sherlock’s gaze skittered away for a moment, and he chewed his lip. “Yes,” he finally replied, glancing into John’s eyes for just a moment. John had a feeling that if it weren’t for the data on couples he was trying to collect, Sherlock would’ve skipped completely.

John tried to behave normally, no matter how much he wanted to just curl up on the bed beside Sherlock and never leave.

“Five minutes. Hop to it, soldier.” He thumped Sherlock in the shoulder softly before moving to tidy his mess.

Sherlock gave him a small smile before rising to gather his evening clothes.

***

Sherlock’s quietude lasted through dinner, after which he disappeared with nary a word. Luckily John had begged off the evening activities suggested by their tablemates, so no one saw when Sherlock left John alone in the corridor outside their cabin. John tried both film and literary distractions, to no success. Eventually, he set off to wander the quiet corridors, hoping he might run across his errant flatmate. He finally called a halt a little after midnight and headed back to the cabin.

The suite was dark and silent, with no sign of Sherlock, not that John had expected him to be there. Either he was caught up in an experiment or hiding from John. Whatever the reason, he would likely be away the entire night.

John got ready for bed, turned out the lights, and took the opportunity of having the bed to himself to lay in the middle, as he preferred when alone. He managed to drop off around two but was roused sometime later when the opening door spilled light from the corridor directly onto his face.

He vaguely tracked Sherlock around the room as he performed his nighttime routine and slipped into bed, which was apparently difficult given that John was still taking up the middle of it. Sherlock sighed and attempted to push him over, but John wasn’t having it. He moaned in sleepy protest.

“John, you need to budge up. There’s not enough room.”

“Eenngghh,” said John.

“John.”

John scootched over a little, not willing to give up the warm nest he’d created.

“John.”

“Noooo.”

“Please.”

John moaned again but gave up another few precious centimeters of prime real estate.

Sherlock sighed but slid over as well as he could. Once he was situated, John curled around him, slipping a hand over Sherlock’s waist. To hell with the cold shoulder. He’d had a taste of having all of Sherlock, and his drowsy brain decided he didn’t want to give him up unless Sherlock had a really good reason otherwise.

“John.”

“Stop talking. Sleep now.”

Sherlock acquiesced, but his posture remained tense. John brought his hand up to Sherlock’s chest and rubbed it whilst nosing his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “Sleep.”

“I’m trying. You’re making it difficult.”

“I’m making you comfortable.”

“You’re really not.”

“You’re cold.”

“Figuratively or literally?”

“Literally.”

“You could move away.”

“No. Can’t make you comfortable from across the bed.”

“How are you making me comfortable?”

“Warming you up. Soothing away the tension.”

Sherlock was silent for a time. “Did you consider that you’re the one who is making me uncomfortable?”

John shook himself the rest of the way awake when it was clear Sherlock wanted to talk. “Why couldn’t we have talked this morning— _or anytime today actually_ —like civilized people? Why do you want to talk about it at three in the bloody morning?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise.

“You weren’t going to say anything at all, were you? Git.” John nudged his knee against Sherlock’s in protest. “Well, that’s not an option anymore. We’re going to talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Alcohol caused an error in judgement. The event should be deleted. We will go back to our initial agreement for the trip, complete the mission, and return to London and our lives. Nothing will change.”

No, he couldn’t do that. Something had happened between them the night before, and it wasn’t an error in judgement. Things had begun changing before last night even happened. “I don’t _want_ what we had before.”

“So you’re going to leave me—punish me for one stupid mistake? That’s not very loyal of you, John,” Sherlock spat out.

“One stupid …? No!” John pushed himself to a seated position so he could see Sherlock. There was just enough light in the room for John to see the hurt on his best friend’s face. “Can you honestly say that before last night, you never harbored the idea of us together? That the alcohol was one hundred percent to blame for our actions and decisions?”

“Well.” Sherlock paused. “No. But we’ve been pretending to be a couple for several days. It’s only natural to think about what else we might do. But that’s just me being curious.”

“And nothing before this week?” John asked weakly. He’d thought. Maybe. Given enough time … but no. He was being stupid. It was completely one sided.

Sherlock sucked in a breath. “John. How long?”

Bugger. Of course he’d deduced it. John had known the risk when he’d agreed to this week. When he’d agreed to live with an overly perceptive flatmate who sometimes knew John better than John knew himself. Fine. Maybe it was better this way. He wouldn’t have to hide anymore. He’d tell the truth, and Sherlock would either choose to ignore it or never speak to him again. Better to rip off the plaster.

“You know our fake relationship history?” John asked quietly.

The silence grew oppressive as John waited for Sherlock to speak. “Yes,” he finally said.

“About a week before that.”

“You …”

“Realized I was in love with you then? Yeah.”

“Love?” Sherlock asked after a few more moments.

John’s laugh was bitter. “I _am_ a romantic after all. Purely sentimental.”

“Love.”

“No need to rub it in.” John scrubbed at his face, trying to steel himself for Sherlock’s letdown.

“Yes.”

“Sher–”

“I’ve been trying to pinpoint my feelings for you for over a year.” Sherlock continued to lie on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His voice was devoid of emotion. “No one had ever really paid attention to me. Not like you did. Your awe was flattering. I thought it was just a strange version of Stockholm Syndrome, but with flatmates. Then it continued. Increased. I wanted to do things for you. I wanted to be around you. I was sad when you were sad.

“I thought I was confusing platonic feelings for romantic ones. We were flatmates and friends. Of course you would affect me more than anyone else. You were my first friend, you know. I had acquaintances at uni. Sebastian you’ve met. Victor you haven’t. For a time, I thought they were my friends, but they proved otherwise. I distanced myself from people after that. Until you. You slipped through as if it were the easiest thing. You seemed to give it no thought. Having friends was something you just did, like a normal person. Then one day, when we were sat in the museum waiting for the thieves, it clicked. It was romantic feelings I had. My first. Not love. No, not then. But … something. Something more than one feels for a friend, even a best friend. There was, of course, the enticement of, ah, the physical aspects.”

“Do you mean we could’ve been having sex all this time?” Christ. Why did he say that? Sherlock had just poured his heart out, and John was whinging like a fifteen-year-old. He put a hand over his face. “I mean ...”

Sherlock chuckled. “Yes?”

“This whole time I could have had hand holding and cuddling on the sofa and fighting over whose family we visit for Christmas and telling you I love you when I leave for work or we’re about to be shot at by criminals?”

“If you wanted, yes.” Sherlock sounded both amused and frightened. “Well, maybe hiding from family Christmases rather than arguing over them.”

John laughed in agreement, then laid down and wrapped himself back around Sherlock, glad to feel the tension was gone. “And now? Do we get to do those things now?”

“I …”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to. I can– We can figure something out. I won’t–”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, we can do those things.”

“Along with the sex, right?” John asked cheekily. “Because I’d rather like to try that out again.”

“Yes, John.”

“You say my name a lot, did you realize that?”

“I like saying your name.”

“I like it when you say my name.”

“May we kiss now, John?”

“Yes, we may, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you diffuse post-coital awkwardness? Take over the whole bed and force your partner to talk. It worked for John at least! Yay for talking and kissing.
> 
> That’s it for the main story. Tiny epilogue next, where we learn how John won this fantastic trip.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did John win such a great prize?

Mycroft quickly accepted the incoming call, ready to give his final report. This project had been a thorn in his side for too long now. He wanted it over.

“It’s done.” He paused a moment to allow the caller to speak, then rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mummy. I’ll be sure to let Sherlock know that you expect to see them both at Christmas.” Pause. “Yes, the cruise idea worked. I appreciate you suggesting it.” Mummy spoke again. “No, there’s no hope for me. You’ll have to make do with Sherlock and John. Goodbye, Mummy.”

He ended the call before she could natter on further about him being alone. Unlike Sherlock, being alone really did protect him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno why I often have Mycroft playing the puppeteer in my story epilogues. It just makes me giggle, I guess. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my story. Thanks so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on Tumbler [@vateacancameos](http://vateacancameos.tumblr.com/) or on Twitter at [@aerynmoon0](https://twitter.com/aerynmoon0)


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